Home
by LeFox
Summary: 'He said he'd stay if I told him the cloak looked good on him,' she thinks, her hands curling into fists as she walks. 'I told him it did.' There on that black planet, with him lying there all beat-up and sad looking, she'd told him his dumb cloak looked good on him. He'd even said it made him happy to hear her say it. 'I told him it did. So where is he? '


**Author's Note: **So I finally unlocked Faize's hidden ending (after not knowing it even existed for approximately forever). Send help, I'm having emotions.

* * *

**Home**

By LeFox

At first, he believes he must be dead. At first he suspects the world he wakes up on – cold and empty, no humanoid life as far as he can see – must be a piece of the Daemonium. Though he's never been a particularly devout believer in any kind of afterlife, Faize is willing to adjust his beliefs in the face of overwhelming evidence.

Besides, if he _is_ in a demon-ruled land of the dead, perhaps it's only what he deserves: a man who would turn on his friends, on his entire _universe_. A barren, lonely world might be too kind a fate.

But the cuts and bruises from the fight with Edge and the others are still there, and when he touches the wounds, they still hurt. Can someone still feel pain in the afterlife…? He isn't sure, and suddenly, he wishes he'd spent more time studying up on such things. But how was he to know such knowledge would come in handy?

Always looking in the wrong place, always focused on the wrong things, always going about things the wrong way.

Yes.

A barren, lonely world _is_ too kind a fate for him, he decides.

. . .

Woodley has never been home, but it is now. She's living with Lutie's mother: since Lutie went to live in the citadel to serve as the Oracle, her room was empty. Lutie's mother says she's good company, and the old villagers from Triom are here now – she should be happy, she thinks, but this world seems so little now.

"I'm gonna go see Lutie, 'kay?" She doesn't wait for an answer, she just goes – Grampa could tell her to stay put, but no one's gonna tell her now, and she's strong enough to fight the monsters on the snowy fields on her own, anyway. Everyone knows she's been traveling with the 'gods.' They don't know what she's been doing, and they don't ask; she doesn't know what she'd tell them anyway. There's too much and it's too… it's too… it's too _big_ to talk about.

She can see the new people down by the lake's edge, fishing in the cold water: they say they're travelers from a faraway country, but she knows better. They're _Eldarians_, and their world was all burned up, so they had to come here. She doesn't know why they left their space ships and glowy weapons behind, but she thinks maybe it's better this way.

Even though the tall one – Gaghan is his name, but she calls him Ghannie – says hello to her sometimes, she mostly avoids them. They make her think of…

_Of_…

Tears cloud her eyes, and she blinks them away in the cold mountain air, turning away and storming up to the citadel. Lutie will know she's coming. Lutie always knows, it's part of being an Oracle.

_He said he'd stay if I told him the cloak looked good on him_, she thinks, her hands curling into fists as she walks. _I told him it did. _There on that black planet, with him lying there all beat-up and sad looking, she'd told him his dumb cloak looked good on him. He'd even said it made him happy to hear her say it…

_I told him it did. So where is he?_

. . .

Hunger is the first clue that he's still alive, his mending wounds the second. He drags himself to his feet and does something no civilized Eldarian has done for centuries: he goes hunting. An experimental attempt reveals he's still perfectly capable of using symbology. Fortunate, really – he's much too weak for anything else. Certainly too weak to chase down a fleeing animal.

His slow, graceless staggering carries him to a forested area: snow still settles on the ground here and there, but the towering trees high overhead bear most of it. Here he finds a sheltered spot to watch and wait, symbol ready at hand. He doesn't even know if the wildlife here is edible; at this point, he's hungry enough not to care.

Hungry, yes, and not particularly desperate to cling to his life.

The thought whispers through his mind that perhaps he _shouldn't_ cling to his life, perhaps he _shouldn't_ struggle to survive – after the things he did, the pain he caused, the lives he ended, does he _deserve_ to live?

But Edge was willing to help him, there at the end: Edge was willing to risk his own life in the attempt to save his. That's worth something, isn't it? Even if he can't believe in himself, at the very least he cannot afford to question Edge, not again. So he _must_ live, even if the living itself is painful, even if the shadows at the corner of his mind keep whispering that he deserves to suffer.

And then there's _her_, the little girl with her sharp tongue and mulish stubbornness – she keeps coming to mind, too.

The look on her face, at the end… he can't banish it from his thoughts, nor the way she looked at him for reassurance. _Him_, not Edge; what did that mean? He'd never thought to find his thoughts turning to _her_ for comfort, but as he sits in the cold darkness of a faraway forest, waiting for an unfortunate beast to creep by, they do.

. . .

She doesn't understand. She doesn't understand at all.

_Edgie _came back right away, when they'd thought for sure he was gone: Reirei had cried and cried, and everyone was talking about how brave he'd been, how he'd let them all get away with Giotto's transfer symbol without holding them back, but Reirei just kept crying… and then they'd gotten a message saying something about an unfamiliar ship seeking permission to dock. And there was Edgie, smiling just like he always did, like everything was going to be alright.

She'd looked around, hoping Edgie wasn't alone, hoping that maybe… but no. No.

She just doesn't understand.

The way he smiled at her on the black planet – she thought it meant he was saying _it's going to be okay. _

But it's not okay. It's not.

There's so much she wants to tell him, and she wants to show him all of Cerberus's new tricks, and she wants to tell him about the other Eldarians coming to Lemuris, and she wants, and she wants, and she _wants_.

. . .

He's getting very good at hunting, and little by little his strength is coming back. The desire to live in spite of his mind's shadows keeps him going, and every day he walks a bit further, exploring the world that has become simultaneously his kingdom and his prison. There are no other humanoids here, of that he's positive. There is no mark on this world: no trees cut down or stones carved out to build homes, no land tilled up for crops, no smoke billowing into the sky from a chimney. The animals don't seem to immediately regard him as a threat; they watch him from a wary distance, marking his presence and passage with curious caution.

In the empty air, when he isn't hunting, he finds himself talking aloud about this new world around him.

"It's surprising it hasn't developed humanoid life yet," he says to no one, watching the clouds roll through the sky overhead as he walks through a wild, frozen meadow. "Most planets eventually do, particularly ones so well-suited to it. It might make an excellent planet for emigration for my Eldarian brethren…"

_If there are any Eldarians left._

The thought silences him, and he walks quietly through the meadow, letting the long, ice-sheathed blades of grass mark his steps.

. . .

She watches the sky a lot when she's at the citadel with Lutie; she likes to sit on the balcony and look up. The sky seems closer up here, especially at night. She tells Lutie that all of the stars up there are actually different worlds.

"My friends Sarrie and Merry are on one of those worlds," she says, and she wishes she knew which star was Roak. "And Edgie and Reirei are from another one, 'kay?"

Lutie nods and smiles, but she isn't sure Lutie really understands how all those little lights out there are actually whole _worlds_, just like Lemuris, and every one of them is full of people. She doesn't know how to begin to explain how all of these worlds have all of these people and they're all so _important_. She isn't sure how to make Lutie really _understand_, so the two of them just stand in the chilly night air, watching the stars overhead.

And she wonders if maybe, on one of those gently twinkling worlds…

. . .

"The important thing is to keep moving forward," he says aloud, as he does at least once a day. It's what Lady Eleyna said, it's what kept Edge going despite the fear and pain he endured – it's what kept all of his friends alive, when death would have been so much easier. So he says it aloud to himself at least once every single day, often several times: when his legs grow weary, when his heart aches, when he no longer knows why he's trying so hard to survive.

The terrain gets rougher; he realizes after a few days of walking uphill that he's in the foothills of a mountain range. High above, the snowy peaks pierce the clouds, and he squints up at them, shielding his eyes from the sunlight.

"It's probably best not to attempt _that_," he admits. "I don't have the proper equipment, nor do I know the first thing about mountain climbing." And the only shield he has against the cold is the cloak the girl from the Black Tribe gave him.

He touches the cloak briefly, a habit he's never shaken. It's funny, now, how he can barely remember the girl's face, yet he recalls seeing the clip from her hair lying on the ledge beneath the sacrificial altar…

And her voice, the little girl's voice, calling him back from the edge of madness.

"What might have happened if you weren't there that day?" His voice turns to mist in the cold air. "Might I have given into despair even then?"

She'd known all along, hadn't she, that something strange was happening to him; that something was wrong. No matter how hard he tried to deny it, even to himself – no matter how hard he tried to hide it. She'd known. She'd even tried to tell him. _Something's weird with you, 'kay? _

The memory makes him smile, but there's a pain that settles into his heart when he realizes he'll never get the chance to thank her for trying to tell him. For trying to warn him about himself.

"The important thing," he says, swallowing hard and beginning to walk again, this time away from the mountains. "Is to keep moving forward."

. . .

"Lym?" Lutie's voice calls to her from inside the warm citadel; she's sitting on the balcony again, looking up. "Lym, are you… looking for something?"

Lutie's never asked _that_ before. Surprised, she blinks, looking down from the sky and turning to face her friend. "No." She shakes her head. "I was just looking at the clouds, 'kay?"

There's doubt in Lutie's eyes, but the Oracle doesn't push the question. Instead Lutie beckons her back inside, and she goes – Lutie's promised to start teaching her some new symbols, and Lutie even says that maybe, in a month or two, she can start teaching her own students. She's a very advanced symbologist, Lutie says, and she should pass her knowledge along to the children of the villages served by the citadel.

She's a little afraid of the idea.

She's never been very good with other people.

What if she messes up?

What if she makes them so mad they hate her?

What if she makes them so mad they leave and never come back even if they say they will, as long as she says she likes their ugly cloak?

But Lutie seems so sure about it, so she goes along with it: it's something to focus on, anyway, something to think about. It's better than watching the clouds, hoping she might see something else.

. . .

The next day he runs into freezing rain. He seeks shelter and finds it beneath a rocky ledge – only a hollow dip in the rock, but it's enough to keep him out of the ice. Shivering, he wraps the thick black cloak around himself, grateful that it serves more than merely a ceremonial purpose: it _is_ very warm. A nomadic tribe would doubtless have need of warm clothing on their journey; near Tatroi it had been warm enough, but he supposes Roak must have its cold areas as well.

Watching the rain fall and coat the world in a thick layer of crystal, he struggles against melancholy and fails.

Roak. What is Sarah doing, even this very moment? He regrets, now, the way he'd thrown Sarah's survival into her face in the Palace of Creation. Whatever pain he feels for the loss of the Black Tribe, however sharply he catches his breath when he remembers that golden hairclip… none of it is her fault, none of it. It never was. He barely even tried to get to know Sarah, and he regrets that, too; she seemed to be such a good person, and he…

He was too busy being wrapped up in thoughts of guilt and blame.

He sighs, pulling the cloak tighter. _It may be unflattering, but it has its uses_. He smiles, thinking of how often they'd sniped back and forth about the cloak, the two of them; she was always saying it looked bad…

_I always said: that ugly cloak was wrong for you, 'kay?_

She knew, she knew from the very beginning who he was, even behind the mask of the Apostle of Creation.

And even after it all… even after the battle was over…

If he had to guess which of his companions would stand by his side after everything he'd done, never in a thousand years would he have suspected one would be _her_.

. . .

She's growing so quickly now, as if all the years when she didn't grow are finally catching up. It's awkward at first, the way she bumps into everything and forgets how tall she is, but slowly, she gets used to it; the walk from Woodley to the citadel gives her lots of practice. And when she's with Lutie, she's learning so much – it's like she's not just growing taller, she's also growing up.

"I think traveling did you a lot of good, Lym," Lutie confides one day, squeezing her hand. "You're paying so much more attention now – do you remember how you used to wander away from lessons?"

The lessons were always boring, she wants to protest, always about things she already knew, or things that were too hard for her to concentrate on.

Things she can do now.

Next week she's going to start teaching her own students. Lutie has started showing her easy, simple symbols to show them; little tricks to keep them interested in later lessons.

She's still a little scared.

But maybe… maybe she's going to be good at this, after all?

. . .

Two days pass, and the rain scarcely lets up for a minute. He watches it, thinking, remembering… wondering. Wondering what they're all doing now, wondering how their lives have been shaped by the adventures they've survived. He's certain Edge and Reimi must be together somewhere, and he supposes the rest of them must have gone home to their respective worlds, back to their homes and families.

He finds himself wondering what has become of her, the child left without a family to return to, without a village to call home.

"You'll find a place to call home, though, won't you?" He hasn't spoken in days, his voice sounds hoarse. "You were always so full of surprises…"

And no matter what, she has Cerberus to keep her safe. The demon dog. Her _little doggie_. Surely Cerberus would protect her, no matter where she went, no matter what. Cerberus would protect her until she found a home.

_Home_.

The word lances through him, and tears burn his eyes. _Home, home, home_. Has this empty world become his home? It's beautiful, it's better than anything he deserves, but it's not home. It's not, and he knows it never will be. But how can he leave? The Sol's control unit is unresponsive – out of range, he suspects. There are no ships on this planet, and no civilizations to build one. He can't even send out a distress signal; he doesn't even know what world he's on. He doesn't even know what galaxy he's in.

Sinking into loneliness, he pulls the cloak even tighter, his sobs drowned out by the rain.

_It's what you deserve,_ the shadows whisper. _It's all you deserve_.

. . .

That night, she tosses and turns, thinking. This time next week, she'll have taught her first lesson. Is she ready?

She can't sleep; she gets out of bed, pulling on a coat and stepping outside, into the quiet night air. Overhead the stars are sparkling, and she closes her eyes, taking a moment to remember them all – all of her friends.

_All_ of them.

"I'm gonna be a _great_ teacher, 'kay?" So good even _he'd _have to admit it. She'd make him say so, just like he made her say his cloak looked good. "So… so just you watch."

She stands there in the cold for a minute, glaring at the stars, daring him to come down and tell her otherwise… but the stars remain silent, and after a moment, she retreats back to the warm safety of her bed.

. . .

The cloak is twisted in his fingers now, and his hands are so cold he can barely move his fingers. It's snowing now, and he hasn't left the safety of his rocky shelter except to find food – his wandering has come to an end, at least for now. He clings to the cloak as his only source of warmth; the wind quickly smothers any fire he manages to build – provided he manages to scavenge any dry wood, which is becoming harder and harder.

"I could die here," he realizes, but his words are swept away by the wind.

The idea scares him – and that alone is surprising; only a short time ago, he thought death was all he deserved! And here he is now, fearing it, shrinking away from it.

_So you don't want to die_, he tells himself, half-scolding. _What are you going to do about it?_

Keep moving forward.

Keep moving forward.

But how? He twists his frigid fingers even tighter into the black fabric of the cloak, trying to find the road ahead, but when he closes his eyes, all he sees is that golden hairclip glittering on the ledge, and a nameless young woman handing him a cloak that matched those worn by the other members of their tribe. A tribe whose history was long forgotten, with only their skill at catching Bunnies, their cloaks, and their unique symbology left to them…

_Symbology_.

His eyes snap open, and he stares at the cloak in his hands. Symbology! The Black Tribe knew a way to perform transference symbology with just a single symbol – a way to transport matter across an untold stretch of space, instantaneously. If he can do that… if he can somehow recreate the symbol used by the Black Tribe…

Perhaps he can go home.

With renewed enthusiasm to warm him, he goes immediately to work, sketching rough symbols in the cave's dusty floor with the burned end of a stick from his failed fire. "It's possible," he says aloud, shielding his sketches from the wind. "It's possible, I just have to be –"

. . .

"…Patient," Lutie reminds her, as they walk toward the village. "Not all of them will be as talented as you were at that age."

_Be patient, be patient, be patient_, the words echo along with her heartbeat, and she watches the village draw closer as if she's never seen it before, as if she didn't just see it that morning. The sun is shining overhead, and the snow is even starting to melt – it's a good sign, Lutie says. But her heart is pounding in her throat and she can't even remember the symbols she was going to teach them.

She's going to mess it up.

She's going to draw the wrong symbol, she's going to cast the wrong spell, and they're all going to hate her.

But she meets with all of them anyway: her new students. There are only three of them. They're much younger than she is, but it's hard to tell – she's growing, but she hasn't grown _that _much, not yet. Under Lutie's watchful eye, she shows them how to draw the symbols: carefully, just like _that_. Eventually, she tells them, they won't need to draw the symbol out anymore; just knowing it, just having it in their mind, is enough. But for now, just for a little while, it helps to have it all drawn out. She shows them the little ways a drawing can change from one spell to another: how a weak symbol can be changed ever so slightly to become a stronger one, how two symbols can be combined to form a new spell altogether.

It's all things they're going to learn _later_, of course, but it helps to show them what's possible.

"You just have to pay attention to what you're drawing," she says, showing them an easy symbol: one that makes a small ball of light. "If you don't, you might mess up, 'kay?"

She knows better than most what might happen if someone messes up a symbol. Sometimes it's just a different spell than they were expecting… and sometimes it opens up a door to another world.

She's not going to teach them how to summon, no matter how much they ask.

"But you should be okay," she hurries to add, seeing the worried looks on her students' faces. "You just gotta be –"

. . .

Careful, so careful. He traces the outer circle again, trying to recall from memory alone – and from nothing more than a hasty glance – the spell cast by the symbol the nomad woman had used. The design of the spell itself isn't the symbol, of course, but it might be enough from which to work backward. It's all he has.

He thanks whatever benevolent deity saw fit to make sure that for all the things he never studied, he _did_ choose to study symbology extensively.

He thanks that same deity for giving him an excellent memory.

The spell's design is simple enough, if indeed he's recalling it correctly. It's very similar in nature to a complex transfer symbol, but those require a number of calculations, with every symbol working in perfect harmony with the rest… it's simply too much to risk, particularly when he isn't certain exactly where in the universe he _is_. That renders such calculations difficult, if not impossible.

The Black Tribe's transference symbol is different: a single symbol. Less complicated, fewer chances of miscalculations… _if _he can get it right.

He can't help wishing the little symbological prodigy were here. She always seemed to know strange and unique ways to use symbology, while he had been forever constrained by what was already known and set down in stone; it was her creative flexibility that gave her strength. He suspects if she were here, this symbol would be done in no time.

He stares at the completed replication, willing it to give up its secrets. If he can just get this right, if he can just figure this out, he can go home. And he can, he's sure of it; he was one of the best students in his symbology lessons! He _can_, it's just going to take –

. . .

"…time, 'kay?" She's looking over their shoulders, watching them draw. They've been at this for a couple of months now, and she's finally starting to teach them how to combine symbols – how to make more advanced spells, how to make their _own_ spells. They look up to her: the little rebellions that cropped up at the beginning of her lessons have finally started quieting down, and they're listening to her now, they respect her.

Even her trips to the citadel have grown less frequent than her trips to the fields outside of town, where her students practice drawing with the safety of distance between them and the town. Lutie doesn't have to watch over her lessons anymore: she's a good teacher, just like Lutie said.

"Just remember to take your time," she repeats, looking around at them: her students, all three of them, turning into skilled symbologists under her hand.

Her students.

But not her friends.

It's still hard for her to make friends, even though she's trying to open up more. She doesn't admit it, even to herself, but she misses the days when she was surrounded by friends – Edgie, Reirei, Merry, Sarrie, and the rest. Even…

_I won't look at the sky_, she tells herself, and this time, she keeps her eyes down.

He's not coming, she knows. He never was, not since he fell into the darkness at the heart of the black planet. If she wanted him to stay, she should've said so back on that planet with all the bugs – back when he first asked. That was her only chance, her _only _chance, and she let it slip by.

So she teaches her students, she learns her own lessons from Lutie at the citadel, and she keeps her eyes off of the –

. . .

_Clouds are rolling in_, he realizes, not even looking up; the shadows are growing heavy. He'll have to abandon his work for today. Groaning quietly, he straightens, frowning at the symbols sketched roughly at his feet.

He's been at this for months.

With no progress.

Well, perhaps it's not fair to say _no_ progress – he's managed to accidentally stumble upon several other symbols he hadn't counted on. Nothing useful, and nothing even approximating transference, but the ability to recreate an entire flower from one of its petals might someday be of use to a botanist somewhere. If he can find a botanist.

He isn't giving up; he has nothing better to _do_. If it takes ten years, if it takes the rest of his life, he has nothing else to concentrate on.

He retreats to the shelter he's found in a cave, watching as the rain starts to fall, erasing the day's hard work. Shaking his head, he lets the cloak fall closed over the small cave entrance. It's too threadbare now for any practical use, but it serves to keep out the wind.

_Tomorrow_, he thinks, just as he has for months now. _I'll definitely get it –_

. . .

"Tomorrow," she replies, cradling the small white flower in her hands, gently spinning it between two fingers. "I just have to go, 'kay? It's been so long."

Lutie's eyes are full of concern, watching the flower. "Lym…"

"I'll be fine, Lutie." Of course Lutie doesn't know she went back to visit Triom lots of times with Edgie and the others, and they always stopped to talk to Grampa – she even left a bouquet for him once.

Now the Eldarians lived in Triom, and it was a different village completely. But they didn't bother Grampa, they left him right where he was, and after she told them about him, they started leaving flowers for him too. But it's been so long since she last visited…

She knows she should have, but she got busy with her lessons with Lutie, not to mention teaching her own students.

Tomorrow, though. Seeing the flower today reminded her: so tomorrow, she's going to go visit Grampa, and she's going to apologize for being away for so -

. . .

Long days stretch into long nights, and when it isn't raining, he works. When it _is_ raining, he closes his eyes and tries to recall the spell again, but time pulls it ever further out of reach. The longer he waits, the more he forgets, and soon, it might be too late.

"I want…" His voice echoes in the cave.

He draws a symbol, almost at random, almost without realizing what he's doing.

The spell ignites, and he stares blankly at it, wondering what _this_ one does, what _this_ strange symbol does…

…and then he realizes.

"I did it," he breathes, taking a step back, catching himself against the cold cave wall. Home, home, he can go-

. . .

Home, or at least it once was. Triom has changed now; she doesn't know the faces, she doesn't know the sounds, even the air feels different. It's not a _bad_ different, really, but she doesn't like it. She stands at the mound of stone at the heart of the village: this, at least, has not changed. This will never change.

_Grampa_.

She places the flower at the foot of the stone. "Don't forget… to water it, 'kay?" He always forgot, though, and then she'd have to go find another one. Swallowing, she folds her hands, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. She tells him about it: about her lessons with Lutie, about her students. She tells him she's not lonely.

She never lied to him before.

. . .

The symbol is finished, and it works – he's sure of it, after trying it several times, moving from one place to another, first only a few steps apart, then back to the place where he'd first arrived on this planet, then back to his cave again.

It works.

He only needs to know his destination.

And there he freezes.

Where _is _his destination?

_Home_. But Eldar is gone, and all along, he'd never even been thinking about returning to Eldar. No, when he thought of _home_, he thought of his friends – the Calnus, with its strange crew, precious beyond measure. When he thought of home…

"Home," he said, drawing the symbol on the waiting air. "I want… I want to go _home_."

. . .

The wind picks up, scattering the petals of her flower into the wind. She needs to go back to Woodley now, she knows, but it's so hard – it's hard to leave, knowing she lied to Grampa like that.

. . .

A flash of light and a breath of damp air greet him on the other side, but it's not the air he notices, it's her: it's the look her face, the slump of her shoulders. He catches one of the scattering petals.

He knew that symbol would be good for something.

. . .

Someone's tucking a flower into her hair.

_Lutie, you didn't have to follow me_.

She said she'd be okay, didn't she?

But maybe… maybe it'll be nice to have Lutie walk back to town with her.

She turns, but it's not Lutie standing there.

. . .

He doesn't know what to say.

All this time, and the words simply aren't there: the things he'd like to say to her, the things he wished he could have told her during his long stay on that faraway planet, the apologies, _all_ of the apologies, he wants to apologize for everything.

But she's _here_.

She's here, and so is he, and for the first time in what must be at least a year, he isn't alone.

. . .

He's holding out his hand to her, but she doesn't take it; instead, she leaps into his arms, hurling her arms around his neck. She half expects him to disappear – like a ghost, like the dead man she thought he was, but he's _there_, he's real, he's here, and when he hugs her in return, she feels all the loneliness, all the painful longing – all of it melts away.

"Faize," she says, half-laughing, half-sobbing into his shoulder.

. . .

_I asked to go home and it sent me to you._

He wants to tell her that, but she would only laugh at him.

"I'm home." He holds her close, reveling in the simple wonder of not being _alone _any longer. "I'm sorry I was away for so long, Lymle."

She sniffs, pulling away and recovering some of her lost composure. She's grown, he realizes: she's not the child who left Lemuris so long ago.

"Where's your cloak?" Lymle asks, frowning suddenly.

"I…" He looks down. In his haste, he'd forgotten the cloak serving as his makeshift door. To his surprise, he finds the realization doesn't hurt as badly as he would have expected. _Thank you, _he thinks, touching the spot where the cloak used to sit upon his chest. "I must have lost it."

She frowns at him a moment, then her eyes fill with tears and she begins smiling once more. "Good," she laughs, and he finds he's laughing with her. "'Cause it always did look _really bad_ on you, 'kay?"


End file.
